


The way "Fuck You" Pops from a Broken Boy's Mouth

by ManukaHoney



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Complex trauma, Dyslexic JJ (Outer Banks), Friendship, Gen, JJ (Outer Banks) Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective John B. Routledge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26645326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManukaHoney/pseuds/ManukaHoney
Summary: "It wasn’t that he didn’t like JJ; he was almost as fond of him as he was John B. He had this way of pulling you into the joke and making sure everyone was laughing, and he never let anyone get away with saying a bad word about his friends. Pope could respect that.It wasn’t that he didn’t like JJ.It was just that sometimes, it looked like JJ  could get away with fucking anything."
Relationships: JJ & Kiara (Outer Banks), JJ & Pope (Outer Banks), JJ (Outer Banks) & John B. Routledge
Comments: 15
Kudos: 90





	The way "Fuck You" Pops from a Broken Boy's Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written for months because life has been a hurricane in its own right and I feel a bit rusty so I hope you enjoy reading this even just a little bit anyway!! Someone I loved died a lil while ago just before I watched the OBX series when it came out and the ending had my heart breaking for JJ thinking his best friend was dead so hard.  
> I would really appreciate any feedback or anyone just wanting to tell me an OBX head canon or just yell at me in the comments, they bring me an embarrassing amount of joy to read.  
> Much love to everyone. Thank you for reading xxx  
> ALSO omfg I almost forgot, the title is after Desiree Dalliagacomo's poem 'The Gutter.' It's my favourite poem.

It’s not a secret amongst the pogues that JJ is a loose cannon on his best days and an exposed live wire on his worst- if his manic energy didn’t clue them all in on that one, John B’s careful handling of him would have.

It wasn’t obvious, but it was noticeable.

When Pope and JJ were in that weird phase of being close enough to drink beer and take the piss out of John B together while the three of them watched the sunset from HMS Pogues, but not close enough yet for Pope to really put together the puzzle pieces in front of him, he thought JJ might’ve had a mood disorder or something. He was always  _ wired.  _ Any noise from outside their group would startle him out of whatever he was saying, and he was so quick to get combative with anyone who wasn’t John B that it was jarring to watch.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like JJ; he was almost as fond of him as he was John B. He had this way of pulling you into the joke and making sure everyone was laughing, and he never let anyone get away with saying a bad word about his friends. Pope could respect that.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like JJ.

It was just that sometimes, it looked like JJ could get away with fucking anything. 

In their sophomore year English exam, JJ had lasted all of thirty-five minutes before shoving away from his desk without a word (which, in hindsight, he would realise was a great show of restraint from his friend), and just… left.

He’d waltzed out to do fuck knows what for nearly fifteen minutes and then slipped back into the room and into his chair like nothing had happened, and Pope  _ knew  _ that if he even got out of his damn seat without permission, it would’ve been a whole different story.

Or, whenever JJ got into an argument with someone, his hands would start shaking and he’d get this look in his eye that reminded him of a feral horse, and John B would step in and calm him down. Even when it was John B he was arguing with. And maybe a few times, Pope had wanted to tell him to  _ manage his own damn anger management problems. _

But then, slowly, as Pope and JJ started getting more at ease with each other, he started picking up on little things that made him realise his initial issues with JJ might not have been entirely fair to hold against him.

They’d been studying at Pope’s house after school, and JJ had been writing notes from the shared science textbook so slowly that Pope had started flicking the page back and forth so he could start on the next chapter, and he didn’t mind, but he was also curious. Because JJ wasn’t stupid, he’d figured that much out.

But he was also getting agitated just trying to read a page on pH levels, running a hand through his hair in what Pope knew was a tell, and then John B said something that made one of the pieces fall into place, slinging an arm over JJ’s shoulder all casual.

“You want me to read it out, bro?”

And JJ had just huffed for a moment, rubbing at his eyes like the act of reading was physically hurting them or something, before answering.

“Rather you set it on fire, dude.”

John B had snorted like it was exactly the response he’d expected, and then he’d started reading the textbook out loud while JJ took notes- messy, almost illegible notes, but still. 

And Pope felt like a dick, remembering the way he’d rolled his eyes when JJ had walked out of that examination room because for some reason, he’d just thought his friend had a bad attitude. The possibility that JJ had a learning disability making school that much harder for him just didn’t occur to him.

After that, the picture started becoming clearer.

…..

Sometimes, shit just got too big, too overwhelming, too much of  _ something  _ that he could never articulate, and he hates the way Pope looks at him all concerned and Kie looks at him like he’s about to snap and beat someone to death if they can’t find John B in time. Hates that sometimes he feels like he might. Hates that he’s more likely to snap by falling into a shaking ball, curled up on the floor than he is to take a swing at someone else.

The first time he loses his shit in front of the whole group (Cause fuck knows John B has seen him lose it individually since they were kids), it’s while they’re watching a B-grade Cop show in the chateau, and he doesn’t think it can get much more embarrassing than that.

The rain hadn’t stopped since the sun went down and neither Pope nor Kie had wanted to go home wet, so they’d squashed onto John B’s couch and turned the TV volume way up to try to drown out the sound of the thunder that had started rumbling in, still low like a warning, promising to grow into a storm by the end of the night.

Kiara loved storms. Pope thought they were pretty cool conceptually, but wasn’t about to leave the chateau to spend any time in it either.

John B hadn’t loved storms since Big John went missing, and JJ didn’t love sudden, loud noises that made him flinch violently and make him look like a dickhead in front of people. Between the two of them, they made a good team during nights like these.

The first rumbles of thunder started kicking in halfway through the third episode, and he’d caught Pope watching them out the corner of his eye when him and John B had shifted closer together at the first sound.

He was leaned back up against John B’s chest, more or less, felt an arm slung loosely across his stomach. Usually, Pope was the first to tease them, always in good nature, whenever they had got all close and touchy. He doesn't say anything this time, which makes him think that maybe he isn’t looking great.

He knows that a part of Pope was envious about how tactile he was with John B, the way they would throw each other around and rough-house without the same kind of cautious restraint he’d always have with Pope. It was only a subtle difference, but it was there, and he doesn’t know how to say “ _ hey man, I’m sorry I’m scared of having an anxiety attack in front of you if you get too rough and I think of my dad in that moment, _ ” without sounding like a pussy, so he doesn’t bring it up.

The storm comes in, and every time the thunder cracks over the island, JJ flinches so hard it looks like an epilipetic goddamn seizure, gets a bit more angry at his own nervous system and feels John B’s hands rubbing softly over his shoulders, biceps, the way he does when JJ needs to cool it.

And he’s getting there. More or less.

At one point, Kiara turns around and asks him if he’s okay, always more direct in emotional stuff than any of the guys are, and an episode later, while he’s got his eyes closed so he can concentrate on chilling the fuck out til the ringing in his ears quietens down, he feels Pope’s hand clap against his forearm for a few beats of solidarity. He’s doing okay.

But then he opens his eyes just in time to see a woman on the screen convulsing with a needle sticking out of her forearm and he feels John B tense up, his fingers gripping his body tighter because John B knows fucking everything about him and he’s gone.

He doesn’t remember moving from the couch but he’s in the bathroom anyway, stomach coiled so tightly it’s like he’s been stabbed or something, and he’s gagging on his own spit while he tries not to throw up. He’s there and he’s not there- half in the bathroom that stopped being ‘John B’s bathroom’ and started being ‘the bathroom’ years before, and half in his old living room watching his mom shake and choke on her own vomit on the wooden floorboards. 

An overwhelming part of him wants to slam his fist into the sink, a wall, anything, because he’s so fucking angry that he can’t stop doing this shit but he also can’t unlock his joints or uncurl his body enough to reach that far.

John B’s behind him- he knows before he can see or hear or feel him, because that’s how this goes.

“Easy, J, you’re good, bro.” 

There are hands trying to uncurl his fingers where they’re twisted in his hair and he tries to make his own hands cooperate with the effort, but they’re largely working on their own accord.

His stomach hurts. His jaw hurts, but he can’t stop clenching it tightly anyway.

He shakes, and tries to ignore the panicked voices of Pope and Kie from the doorway, and hopes John B is shielding him with his own body enough that the other two can’t see him completely.

When it stops, slowly and painstakingly, he closes his eyes and leans back into John B’s chest, bites back the apology John B always tells him he doesn’t need to give.

Pope and Kie don’t ask questions, but they also spend weeks watching him like he’s a victimised child before him and John B get into a beach fight with three kooks and come out on top, pumped up on adrenaline and cheering while they relay it back to the other two. After that, things mostly go back to normal.

And sometimes, Pope and Kie still look at him like a wild animal and he has to admit that it’s sometimes fair enough, but mostly they just become tighter. 

The bruises don’t stop- his torso is repainted every time the old ones start to fade and life is still shit but it’s also okay and that’s as good as it’s ever gotten. He counts it as a win.

  
  



End file.
